The air rippled, bending to Malvor's will as if reality itself had to make room for his presence.
And then, as if conjured from the depths of some fever dream, a massive structure emerged before them. Part castle. Part mansion. Part outright madness. It loomed impossibly large, its architecture shifting between elegance and chaos —angles that shouldn't exist blending seamlessly into a masterpiece of disorder.
For the first time, Anastasia reacted. Nothing dramatic. Just the slightest arch of her brow. Barely a flicker of acknowledgment.
Malvor smirked. Ah, so she does have opinions. "Welcome to my home."
With a lazy flourish of his hand, the massive black doors swung open, revealing the grand foyer. Towering ceilings stretched above them, the walls polished black onyx that reflected flickering candlelight. Candles floated freely overhead, their glow warm yet eerily untethered —like stars caught in orbit around a gravitational force of sheer chaos. The obsidian floor beneath them shimmered with inlaid veins of gold, pulsing faintly… as if the house itself was alive.
Malvor strolled forward, hands in his pockets. Casual. Kinglike. "Come, let me show you your room."
Anastasia followed, eyes sweeping over the space, absorbing every impossible detail with cool precision. Then, a glance sideways. A quiet challenge. "I'm getting my own room?"
Malvor chuckled, tossing her a lazy grin. "Yes, my darling Annie, you get your own room."
She stopped walking. Her gaze flicked toward him —cool, unimpressed.
He grinned wider. There it is. She didn't react often, but he could tell: this was going to be a game.
The name rolled around in his head again. Annie. Too sweet. Too personal. Too human for someone like her. Which is exactly why it amused him.
Anastasia exhaled through her nose. Said nothing.
He took that as a victory.
He rocked back on his heels, leaned in slightly, voice low and gleaming with mischief. "Unless, of course, you'd rather share my room?"
He waggled his brows, milked the moment.
She didn't blink. "If you want that."
The air shifted.
Malvor stopped walking. That… was not the response he expected. Flirtation? Maybe. Sarcasm? Likely. But this? Flat. Factual. Unbothered.
She stood there, watching him. No seduction. No softness. No threat.
If you want that, fine.
Before he could answer, she took a step closer. Not urgent. Not desperate. Just inevitable. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers brushing the lapel of his coat. She tilted her chin, leaned in —her lips barely grazing his.
Malvor didn't move.
Her second attempt came smoother, like she knew the pattern. That's when he gently caught her wrists.
"Whoa," he said, warm but firm. "Annie, you don't have to do that."
She paused, eyes steady. "Did I misread the situation?"
He let go, gaze softening. "No. But that doesn't mean I want a performance."
A blink. No offense taken —just recalculating. "Performance," she repeated.
"You're stunning. Breathtaking, even. But I don't want habit. I don't want what you've been taught to give."
She tilted her head. "Most people do."
"I'm not most people."
She studied him again. Still unreadable. Still poised. But something in her posture shifted— not retreat, but reassessment.
He smiled, soft and sardonic. "You wouldn't be the first mortal to try kissing me on arrival. I'm practically a tourism hazard."
Still nothing.
"But I like my affection honest," he added. "Not offered like a tip at check-in."
She didn't pull away. But she did nod. Just once. Then turned and kept walking.
Malvor exhaled slowly and followed.
He sighed again —dramatically, because of course —and stopped in front of a set of grand double doors. He threw them open with a flourish.
"Here you are, Queen Annie. Your royal chambers."
The room was absurd. A massive bed draped in red velvet, its frame carved from wood so dark it shimmered blue under candlelight. A wardrobe that could house a small army stood against one wall. A grand fireplace flickered with gold and blue flame. Even the ceiling danced —patterns that twisted and changed if you looked too long. It was luxury incarnate.
And completely wasted on someone who didn't care.
Anastasia stepped inside, expression steady. She glanced around like she was taking inventory, not moving in.
"It'll do," she said simply.
Malvor blinked.
"That's it?" he asked, voice pitching up with exaggerated offense. "No clever retort? No dramatic swoon? No 'Oh, Malvor, you're so extravagant!'"
He placed a hand over his heart, aghast. "You wound me, Annie."
She turned, one brow barely lifted.
"I don't need extravagance. Just a place to sleep."
Malvor squinted. "You are unbelievably dull."
"And yet," she said, brushing past him, "you're still here."
His lips parted. A retort ready. But —Damn it. She was right. He was still here. Lingering. Watching. Wondering.
Why?
She walked over to the bed, ran a hand along the velvet like she was checking for quality. Routine. Practical.
Then, without looking back: "Are you done, Malvor? Or would you like to watch me sleep too?"
That snapped him out of it.
He scoffed, tossing a hand over his heart." Tempting, Annie. Truly."
He turned on his heel, striding toward the door with theatrical flair. But before he vanished completely, he called over his shoulder —voice still teasing, but softer now.
"Sweet dreams, darling."
And with that, he was gone.
Anastasia stood alone in the extravagant room. The fire crackled quietly. The walls shimmered and shifted in the candlelight.
She moved to the bed, sat down, unbothered. Unmoved.
But one thought lingered.
She was still here. And so was he.